By standing on the rim, I was able to clamber up onto the fountain’s middle bowl, and finally the highest one. I was now level with Brookie’s knees, staring up into his unseeing eyes. His face was a horrid fish-belly white.
He was quite dead, of course.
After the initial shock of realizing that someone I had spoken to just hours before was no longer in the land of the living, I began to feel oddly excited.
I have no fear of the dead. Indeed, in my own limited experience I have found them to produce in me a feeling that is quite the opposite of fear. A dead body is much more fascinating than a live one, and I have learned that most corpses tell better stories. I’d had the good fortune of seeing several of them in my time; in fact, Brookie was my third.
As I teetered on the edge of the sculptured stone seashell, I could see clearly what it was that had glinted in the sun. Projecting from one of Brookie’s nostrils—not his mouth—was an object that first appeared to be a round silver medallion: a flat, perforated disk with a handle attached. On the end of it was suspended a single drop of Brookie’s blood.
The image punched out of the disk was that of a lobster, and engraved on the handle was the de Luce monogram.
D L.
It was a silver lobster pick—one of the set that belonged to Buckshaw.
The last time I’d seen one of these sharp-pointed utensils, Dogger had been rubbing it with silver polish at the kitchen table.
The business end of the thing, I recalled, ended in two little tines that stuck out like the horns on a snail’s head. These prongs, which had been designed to pry the pink meat from the cracks and crevices of a boiled lobster, were now lodged firmly somewhere deep in Brookie Harewood’s brain.
Death by family silver, I thought, before I could turn off that part of my mind.
A little moan from below reminded me that Porcelain was still there.
Her face was nearly as white as Brookie’s, and I saw that she was trembling.
“For God’s sake, Flavia,” she said in a quavering voice, “come down—let’s get out of here. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“It’s Brookie Harewood,” I said, and I think I offered up a silent prayer for the repose of the poacher’s soul.
Protect him, O Lord, and let heaven be bountifully supplied with trout streams.
The thought of trout reminded me of Colin Prout. I’d almost forgotten the boy. Would Colin breathe a sigh of relief when he heard that his tormentor was dead? Or would he grieve?
Brookie’s mother would be in the same quandary. And so, I realized, would almost everyone in Bishop’s Lacey.
I put one foot on Poseidon’s knee and hauled myself up by his muscular elbow. I was now slightly above Brookie and looking down at something that had caught my eye. In the notch between two of the trident’s prongs was a shiny spot the size of a sixpence, as if someone had given the bronze a bit of a polish with a rag.
I memorized the shape of the thing, then began to climb down slowly, taking great care not to touch Brookie’s body.
“Come on,” I said to Porcelain, giving her arm a shake. “Let’s get out of here before they think one of us did it.”
I did not tell her that the back of Brookie’s skull was a bloody mess.
We paused for a moment behind one of the rose hedges which, at this time of year, were in their second bloom. From the direction of the kitchen garden came the sound of Dogger scraping old soil from flowerpots with a trowel. Mrs. Mullet, I knew, had probably gone for the day.
“Stay here,” I whispered, “while I scout things out.”
Porcelain seemed barely to have heard me. White with fright and fatigue, she stood stock-still among the roses like one of Buckshaw’s statues, over which someone, as a joke, had flung an old black dress.
I flitted, invisibly I hoped, across the grass and the graveled drive to the kitchen door. Flattening myself against it, I pressed my ear to the heavy wood.
As I’ve said, I had inherited from Harriet an almost freakish sense of hearing. Any clatter of pots and pans or the hum of conversation would be instantly audible. Mrs. Mullet talked constantly to herself as she worked, and even though I guessed she had gone for the day, one could never be too careful. If Feely and Daffy were planning another ambush, surely their giggles and their tittering would give them away.
But I could hear nothing.
I opened the door and stepped into an empty kitchen.
My first priority was to get Porcelain into the house and stick her safely away in a place where her presence would be unsuspected. That done, I would call the police.
The telephone at Buckshaw was kept out of sight in a small cupboard in the narrow passageway that connected the foyer with the kitchen. As I have said, Father loathed “the instrument,” and all of us at Buckshaw were forbidden to use the thing.
As I tiptoed along the passage, I heard the unmistakeable sound of shoe leather on tiles. It was Father, most likely. Daffy and Feely’s shoes were more feminine, and made a softer, more shuffling sound.
I ducked into the telephone cubicle and quietly pulled the door shut. I would sit on the little Oriental bench in the darkness and wait it out.
In the foyer, the footsteps slowed—and stopped. I held my breath.
After what seemed like two and a half eternities, they moved away, towards the west wing and Father’s study, I thought.
At that instant—right at my elbow!—the telephone rang … then rang again.
A few moments later, the footsteps returned, advancing towards the foyer. I picked up the receiver and pressed it tightly against my chest. If the ringing stopped suddenly, Father would think that the caller had rung off.
“Hello? Hello?” I could hear a tinny voice saying to my breastbone. “Are you there?”
Outside, in the foyer, the footsteps stopped—and then retreated.
“Are you there? Hello? Hello?” the muffled voice was now shouting, rather irately.
I put the receiver to my ear and whispered into the mouthpiece. “Hello? Flavia de Luce speaking.”
“Constable Linnet here, at Bishop’s Lacey. Inspector Hewitt has been attempting to get in touch with you.”
“Oh, Constable Linnet,” I breathed in my best Olivia de Havilland voice. “I was just about to ring you. I’m so glad you called. The most awful thing has just happened at Buckshaw!”
That chore done, I beat a rapid retreat to the rosebushes.
“Come on,” I said to Porcelain, who was standing precisely as I had left her. “There’s no time to waste!”
In less than a minute, we were creeping stealthily up the wide staircase of Buckshaw’s east wing.
“Blimey,” Porcelain said when she saw my bedroom. “It’s like a bloomin’ parade square!”
“And every bit as cold,” I replied. “Climb under the quilt. I’ll go fix a hot water bottle.”
A quick trip next door to my laboratory, five minutes with a Bunsen burner, and I had filled a red rubber bag with boiling water, ready to shove in under Porcelain’s feet.
I hoisted a corner of my mattress and pulled out a box of chocolates I’d nicked from the kitchen doorstep, where Ned, the smitten potboy, was forever leaving tributes to Feely. Since Miss Snotrag never knew they’d arrived, she could hardly miss them, could she? I reminded myself to tell Ned, the next time I saw him, how much his gift had been appreciated. I just wouldn’t tell him by whom.
“Help yourself,” I said, ripping the cellophane from the box. “They may not be as fresh as the flowers in May, but at least they’re not crawling with maggots.”
Ned’s budget could only afford chocolates that had been left in the shop window for a quarter century or more.
Porcelain stopped with a vanilla cream halfway to her mouth.